


Collapse

by ClaraCivry (Kat_Of_Dresden)



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Concerned Band, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Brian May, Medical, Medical Mystery, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-05-13 04:36:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19243960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat_Of_Dresden/pseuds/ClaraCivry
Summary: Brian collapses in the middle of a concert.Nobody knows what's wrong with him, but it's bad.The band deals with it in different ways.





	1. He fell

Everything was going right, and then suddenly everything collapsed.

The crowd loved them, it was one of their best finest concert, with carefully chosen songs, with energy, with enthusiasm, with the audience drinking in their sight and repeating everything they said... They were all sweaty, but happy, glad and smiling and exhausted from everything that they'd played, but feeling like their best selves. Feeling that this was what they were born to do. An ideal moment - unbreakable.

They were giving their all, singing the last song before the encore ad they were ready to just finish in the grandest way possible. Roger was busting his hands, giving his excess energy to the public, John moving in careful rhythmic movements, dancing his ass off, Freddie breaking down the stage, basking in everyone's, enjoying himself like a little kid. They had all been too wrapped up in their own happiness to notice anything. Until there was no choice but to notice.

In the middle of the song, Brian collapsed, falling face first on the floor, lifeless. There was a small pool blood forming where his forehead had collided against the floor, and weird drowned out noises coming from his guitar. After all the noise, there was suddenly silence. Freddie hadn't seen anything as Brian had been behind him, but saw the concerned expressions of the public, their fingers pointing at the stage. They had seen it all.

Some of them had only seen the result, that figure thrown on the floor, distracted by Freddie's antics or John's dancing. But Brian had his own fans, and some of them had seen the whole thing, had their eyes on the guitarist. It had been quite quick, quite abrupt. It started with him stopping to play, and his eyes looking a bit unfocused, as if he had trouble to remember the chords or something. And then the man seemed waver a bit on his feet, lose balance... And suddenly his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell on a dead faint on the floor. Boneless. Lifeless.

Roger threw his drumsticks to the floor, climbed from behind his drum set and raced to his fallen friend, still having trouble to understand what had happened. This couldn’t be, right? Couldn’t be. Brian hadn’t dropped to the floor in front of them, Brian wasn’t bleeding and unconscious in front of them. Roger got next to Brian and turn him over, tried to get him to wake up, but nothing. The guitarist’s mouth opened and closed with movement, all his limbs slack, making him look like some kind of gigantic doll.

“Brian, come on! It’s not funny.”

But somehow Roger knew that this was no joke, that something serious was happening. There was an uproar in the audience, people wondering what the hell was going on. Suddenly Fred was there too, beside them, looking at the unconscious Brian with terror in his eyes.

“What…?”

Roger looked at him with dread. Freddie started thinking and spoke:

“I’ll take him backstage, you run and get our medic. John, tell something to the crowd, say goodbye, apologise.”

Well, at least there was a plan. Freddie cupped Brian’s face again and when he received no response, he took him in his arms, long legs dangling on one side, carefully putting the head on his chest. He walked towards the backstage with solemn steps, wishing for Brian to stir with every heartbeat.

“You need to wake up, darling. You’re frightening everyone.”

But Brian’s head just lolled from side to side, giving no indication of hearing anything. Of improving. With a heavy heart and much gentleness, Freddie put his unconscious friend on a couch on the backstage, only to see Roger racing back with the medic, who had the baggie with the medical supplies.

John arrived shortly after,  looking at the other two with a question in his eyes. Roger shook his head, still disbelieving. He could still hear the crowd, feel the high from playing all those songs, was still panting from the effort. And suddenly… Suddenly everything was wrong.

There was a concerned expression in the medic’s eyes nobody liked. And suddenly he was screaming for the ambulance to get there now, and Roger felt that his heart was going to strangle him somehow.

“What’s happening, what’s wrong?”

“He’s not breathing properly, he’s barely passing any air, and I don’t know why because the airways aren’t blocked, or swollen… His pulse is too weak and thready too, he needs a hospital now.”

Then the ambulance came and they put Brian on the stretcher, long legs still dangling. Why wasn’t he waking up? And what on earth could be so bad that hit him in the middle of a song and left him unconscious and breathless? By some cruel irony, everyone was holding their breath while Brian was being loaded.

They decided that Roger would drive with him, since the notion of spending so long without knowing anything made him… Bad. Jittery. And Roger was really hoping that Brian would wake in the ride and he would be able to breathe again.

Freddie and John took one of their cars, with the press hounding them trying to find out what had happened. The fans were holding their breaths, too - for all they knew, Brian could be dead right now, taken by a heart failure. Some of them were crying. Everything was a nightmare.

The ambulance ride was a nightmare too, because Brian never woke up. He lay there, motionless, as the paramedics shouted things, and looked their patient with worry and urgency. They put one of those oxygen masks on Brian, but he still didn’t wake up. He just moved up and down as they went through the road, with that big mask on his face, the eyes closed. It was a nightmare, and Roger wanted to wake up.

They took him to emergency care, shouting more things. Roger had studied enough and was smart enough to know that Brian was practically in respiratory arrest and nobody knew the fuck why. He sat down on the first chair he found and sobbed. This had all been so abrupt, they’d been so happy, so successful and now… Now everything had collapsed, and they hadn’t even had time to process it.

The entire city was holding their breath, and all the Queen fans who’d had to go home without knowing anything, and Roger, John and Freddie. They could only replay the incident in their heads over and over, Brian on the floor, his head lolling from side to side as he was being carried, the medics and doctors screaming that this needed to be fixed now. Once and again, and again, and again.

Nobody was saying anything, nobody could find any words. The situation felt too dire for any reassurances. And so they waited, hoping against hope that this would be solved, that Brian was already awake and that doctors knew what was wrong, and had some treatment. That it had only been a scare. That it was over.

… But it was not the case.

No matter how many fans were sending their best wishes (“pray for Brian May”), no matter how much his friends were hoping for this to be over, to be able to wake up from the nightmare… It wasn’t happening. Couldn’t be happening.

The doctor’s stern face as he came to them said otherwise.

“What… how is he?”

“He went into full respiratory arrest, so we had to intubate him. We put him in an induced coma, to try and slow his decline. He seems to have stabilised, but we still don’t know what caused all these symptoms, so we don’t know yet how to reverse it, or treat him in an effective way.”

“He’s in a coma?” Roger breathed out, his face still crossed by tears.

“Let me assure you, gentlemen, that I have the best diagnostic team working on this, and we’ve called several other hospitals to consult. We will find what’s wrong with his Mr. May. But for now his condition is stable, despite its severity. I will tell you when you are allowed to see him.”

The world was crumbling all around them, as they tried to understand, to get the full impact of those words they just heard. Brian was in a coma. There was a machine breathing for him. He was in a coma. Not breathing anymore, only kept alive by machines.

Just some hours ago, they had been on top of the world, and now…. The entire world had collapsed.


	2. John

There was a big tube inside of Brian’s mouth (a mouth that was dead and unmoving, only open to let that tube in), a big thing that went all down his throat. It seemed unnatural, as much as John understood it, that anyone could breathe with such a big tube inside their throat. It looked like something from a horror film, something meant to choke you, to kill you. They had impaled Brian with that thing. Definitely not something that helped. But John was a smart man, and understood that this machine was doing a good job helping Brian stay alive.

The engineer in him surfacing for a bit, he asked about the workings of it (Eschmann endotracheal tube, the latest novelty!) and even read some papers and books on intubation, to understand it better, to be more at peace with the tube and Brian’s face with it, and with the whole situation. If he knew how this tube was helping Brian maybe the image of his friend with such a horrifying contraption down his throat wouldn’t be so difficult to stomach. Knowing helped, even if not much. It distracted him.

So he asked doctors and nurses about the machines that measured the vitals, about the progress, about what was in the IV bags and how it was helping. He asked about probabilities and options, and every time that a new doctor came with a new diagnosis and had a new treatment, he tried to understand how it would work, how exactly was it going to help Brian. (It was all conjecture. Nobody really knew)

There had been several wrong diagnoses, and some of them had nearly killed the guitarist. John was there, almost every day, he even offered a couple of ideas. Knowing how it was all working was slightly calming, even if not much. He didn’t think he would have been able to even look at Brian if he didn’t know that all those gadgets were actually helping him, and exactly how. It was… Well, it was okay for a machine to have all those parts, all those different bits and materials. But not for a person. Not for Brian.

They were very different, him and Brian. John was warm, he talked less. He didn’t enjoy being in the spotlight, even if sometimes he felt he had more interesting things to say. Brian always tried to find the right words, and often rambled. John said things as they were. John was painfully humble where Brian could often be full of himself. They shared a love for science and specially for their instruments, but other than that, but musically their tastes were quite different too.

Brian liked classic rock. John liked more funky things. John’s songs were often happy and uplifting, Brian’s songs were sad and heavy. Brian was stubborn - but John could be even more. Very different personalities, very different musicians.

Even physically they were very different, John had a pleasant, cute face, eyes that always seemed to be smiling. He gave a sort of peace to those around him, with his smiles, with his authenticity. Brian, on the other hand, was all angles, a long lanky face to go with a long lanky man. His eyes often bespoke of the sorrow he felt, and he could be a bit intimidating with what a tall man he was. He’d always been very thin, but that tube and light hospital made him look even skinnier, half dead already, too pale to be alive, with that awful machine the only way he could receive air.

Brian and John were different. They often fought.

But this didn’t mean that John didn’t care about Brian. The guitarist was one of his closest friends and for all their differences, John couldn’t imagine his life without Brian. The band wouldn’t be the same, that was for sure. The key to their success was that it was the four of them, and that they were so different - they wouldn’t have been as successful with anyone else.

And they also helped each other, cared for each other, loved each other. Sometimes it was hard to put into words, sometimes it was something that was hard to act on. You took the other three for granted, you figured that they would always be there. You annoyed each other - and they all picked on Brian, often, because he was so stubborn, always putting his ideas front and centre, so inflexible, so… Him. There had been times when John had wished for another guitar player, but now that Brian wasn’t there….

They felt empty. Too quiet. Too… hollow.

John thought he would find solace in knowing: knowing how the machines worked, knowing what was the latest diagnosis and how the treatment for it worked. First, the doctors were convinced that it was some chemical inhalation of some sort that was causing all of this. And John was glad, because that could be fixed. Other times, they were convinced it was an infection that somehow appeared without most of its other symptoms, and John was glad because they only needed some antibiotics to fix that. But that didn’t work either.

John knew. Half of the time, he knew before the doctors that what they were trying was going to be futile. Knowing didn’t help as much as he wanted it too, it only made it clearer that there was a real probable chance that they were going to lose Brian. That he could die without any of them ever finding out what had happened.

Mean words couldn’t be taken back. The teasing he’d said suddenly stung. He wasn’t ready to lose Brian, and knowing what he knew... It wasn’t enough.

There was no one around, just John, looking at Brian’s long face with that awful tube. He was on another round of antibiotics, but John knew it wasn’t going to help. In this case, knowledge wasn’t power. It was bullshit. Brian was so quiet… He shouldn’t be so quiet.

They hadn’t heard his voice in too long. So John decided he would fill the silence himself.

“Brian, hey.” He sighed. It was hard talking to somebody and… not having some open eyes, at least. His voice broke a little: “It’s been two weeks, Brian. Doctors are going crazy. Freddie’s been trying to get some American doctor here, but we’re all afraid be able to help either. Roger…. He’s not himself since you… He’s withdrawn and quiet, and smokes less and there’s such grief in him…. And the fans, Brian! There are so many flowers, so many paintings and all kinds of amulets, all hoping to help you feel better.”

There was no response from Brian. But he always had something to say, a kind remark, a thank you, an add-on… John knew why he was quiet, but it still hurt.

“We all… we all need you in different ways, I suppose. Freddie will say that you are trouble, but he could always count on you for good music. Roger… well, you’re really important to him, no matter what he says. You’ve been a good friend to him. And I….” there was a tear rolling down, a tear for all the ones he hadn’t cried in those last two weeks. “I miss you, Brian. For all we fought, and how different we are… I do care for you, and you are… You are making a hole in our lives with this, and I know it’s not your fault, Brian, but I… I don’t know, I don’t know how to help. I don’t know how to make this right, how could we bring you back.”

There was no movement. There wasn’t supposed to be of course, not while they were keeping him in that coma, there was no room for an spontaneous awakening with all those meds going through him. Still…

“You’ve always been very strong, Brian. I admire you for that, for how you’ve always been able to do all the things you liked, and be brilliant. We owe you a lot for what you’ve given to the band and I… I’m confused. I hope you know I didn’t mean to hurt you, I’ve never wanted to see you hurting, not like…. But I probably did, didn’t I?”

John sighed again. His words were unconnected and they hurt, too. He couldn’t properly express this horror. The notion of Brian dying was so awful, so unexpected, so painful.

But John knew it could happen as he watched his friend on that bed.

Brian was pale in that hospital bed. He hadn’t eaten anything solid in two weeks and had lost a lot of weight. Too much. And yet, even if his eyes were closed, you could till see it was him. The long face, so full of angles. The curls sprawled in the pillow. But on his mouth… John knew what the tube was made of, and how it delivered the oxygen. Knew about the maintenance of the machine, and what to do if it malfunctioned.

But he didn’t know how to bring Brian back, and he didn’t know what was wrong with this man that had been with him, with them, through so much. He didn’t know how he could make this image of Brian lying in bed, quiet and unmoving hurt less.

“I wish I knew how to help you, Brian. We all miss you - we all want you back, we… we need you.”

The image of Brian in that bed, with tube, was going to haunt his dreams. John knew it. There was another tear and a gentle squeeze on a cold hand. John managed a small smile.

“You just keep on holding on, okay? We’ll be waiting for you.”

 For all that he knew… John had never known that a hospital room could hurt this much.


	3. Freddie

Freddie Mercury was a self made man. He had grown up in strict boarding schools and ended up becoming one of the most extravagant figures of the musical scene.

He had taught himself a nice British accent, he had shed the past like an old used skin and had become who he always wanted to be. An artist in every sense of the word, Freddie could dance, sing, draw, compose… He could do practically anything his heart had ever desired, and reached heights nobody had hoped for him (except for Freddie himself. He’d known he would be grand. Had always known).

The feat for which he felt most proud was forming the band and keeping it together. It had been no easy task, at all, some would say a Herculean task. As much as they liked what they were doing, they were all very different. John had never meant to be this famous, while it had always been Roger’s plan. Their musical tastes often collided, and their personal lives were extremely different. But they had managed to stay together. Until know.

It was hard for Freddie to admit that he couldn’t actually do anything to fix this situation, no matter how hard he worked, no matter how much he tried. He had persevered until he found his place, had persevered when they had no bassist, had persevered when critics said mean things, and they had gone so far… They’d nearly reached the stars. And Freddie liked knowing that his hard work had its rewards, that they could achieve so much, he could achieve so much.

Freddie fucking Mercury. There was no stopping him. Not at all.

So it was hard for him to just stand around and do nothing, while Brian was rotting away in some hospital bed. Unmoving and asleep like some kind of fairy tale princess. ( _ _There’s no big angry tubes on fairy tales, none of this at all__ ). It was hard for all of them to go and visit Brian, because he looked so gone already, so unlike himself after so many days on that hospital bed, being fed by an IV. Lifeless, gone, hurt. Gone.

Freddie had been there, three days ago, when one of his best friends in the world flatlined. Brian’s heart just gave up, even if it was being helped with all those machines, all that medication.

“Fuck! I need a crash cart now!”

And Freddie couldn’t do anything as the doctors frantically put those electric shock machines that made Brian’s scrawny body jump up so unnaturally. It was horrifying, it felt… It felt like Brian couldn’t be there anymore. Freddie had been there a couple of times when Brian was cleaned too, feeling that maybe he would welcome a familiar touch, a familiar presence. Brian wouldn’t want these strangers to see him like this. He would be embarrassed, wouldn’t he? Even if he had nothing to be embarrassed about. His body was beautiful, like the rest of him. ( _ _A beautiful mind, a beautiful soul__ )

Nobody knew anything yet, nobody could give them a definite answer. Freddie had brought in the biggest authorities on the respiratory system, on lung pathologies, on diagnostic medicine to this hospital, to look after Brian. Some of them convinced him that this was less serious than it seemed, that now that they were there everything would be solved in a moment. They gave them stupid hope, and often only made Brian worse (his liver and pancreas had been damaged by some of the treatments, and his heart was weaker too). (Maybe he shouldn’t have done anything)

The thing that Freddie had come to understand and accept, watching him lie motionless on that bed, watching him be bathed one limb at a time without a single sound coming from him, was that he couldn’t do anything to help Brian. That this went beyond what he could do. And it was something that weighed on him, hard, made him stop… Made him think.

 

*

There’s a new “miracle treatment” on Brian’s IV, but Freddie’s lost most of his hope as he sits by Brian’s bed. He doesn’t remember when was the last time he had a good night’s sleep. It was before all this happened, no doubt. Before everything collapsed. Freddie’s not wearing any makeup today, just a simple all black ensemble and the one hand painted with black nail polish ( _ _like I used to do with you, darling__ ). Anything to remember Brian by. He’s not supposed to be smoking but he couldn’t help himself. There’s practically no one at this time of night, and Brian has a fancy private room, as paid by Freddie, of course. Not a bad place to die.

“Look at me, talking as if you’re already dead!” Freddie says, trying to… lighten the mood? “And I’m dressed like a widow too, how insensitive of me. Stop me, Bri, before I star planning your memorial.”

It’s not funny, but Freddie’s head is too stuffed, too filled with sorrow and memories of him…. The Brian that used to be, the Brian that was before the concert, the Brian they need back.

“I wish there was more I could do, darling, I really do.” Freddie says, his voice breaking a bit as he holds on to a cold hand. “I wish I could help to bring you back, but you seem to have decided to stay like this. You always were a stubborn little ass, weren’t you?”

There’s no change in him, and Freddie hates it.

“I’m almost glad you’re not awake to see all they’re doing to you, darling, all the poking and injecting, dear god….”

There don’t seem to be any words to say, but the silence is unbearable for Freddie, so he fills it, with anything that goes through his mind.

“Look at yourself, dear, you’re a mess. Your hair is all tussled and dry and… your eyes have always been one of your best features, so do open them again, will you?”

Freddie is trying to hold back the tears, but it’s hard. He really misses Brian, a lot. And some part of him understand that maybe he’ll pass away soon enough. Brian with his curls, with his music, with his guitar and his stars. Brian who cares so much about the band that when he was severely ill with hepatitis he waited until the concert to collapse, Brian who always had a new idea, Brian with his smile and pointed teeth. Brian with his voice. God, how much he missed that voice.

“That hospital gown does not become you, darling.” The words hurt as he says them. “Nor does that contraption in your throat.”

There doesn’t seem any way out of this, any way that this will end happily and Freddie hates it. Pictures of coffins and eulogies flash through his head. __No, not him, please not him. I’ll do anything.__

“We are doing everything we can for you, darling, just like you’ve always done everything you could for us. The doctors, me… Yesterday I found John asleep with a book on pneumology on his lap. But you have to promise to hold on too, all right?”

The room is pretty, but somehow awful. The flowers don’t belong here, they’re too pretty. Brian’s barely clinging to life, there shouldn’t be so much colour. Freddie’s lost hope that they will help in any way. But still, while there’s life…

He squeezes Brian’s hand, trying to give him strength and energy and letting him know that he’s not alone, never alone.

“Come on, Brian, you can do this, you can can defeat this. Please don’t let this sickness get the better of you. You’re stronger than this, I know it, you’ve always been strong. Do come back, darling. I miss you more that words can say.”

This was what Freddie could do: miss Brian, and hope

Just don’t give up hope.  


	4. Roger

Roger was angry, at the situation, at Brian, at the million doctors that didn’t seem to find any answers no matter how much time and resources they had, but most of all at himself. There was nothing he could do to change this situation, to make it better. Nothing at all. And the fact he had left things with Brian in such a bad place….

Roger and Brian had a fight, just before the concert. It hadn’t been anything important, not really, some stupid disagreement about the order of the songs and who got the first solo, how long was the drum one, how long was the guitar one. Just egos trying to outdo each other, nothing that really mattered.

But it had mattered a lot to Roger in that moment, because he’d grown tired of Brian and how stubborn he could be, he’d grown tired of everything that Brian was and for a split second he wished that they had another guitarist, that he wouldn’t have to deal with Brian ever again.

It only lasted for a second, of course, because the moment they started playing and he heard Brian with his guitar Roger knew that they couldn’t possibly have or dream of a better guitarist than that. Brian got them such a personal and great sound with his guitar, and despite some arguments and some quarrelling, he worked well with them. As much as he could hate him sometimes Roger knew that Brian was a good person, a great songwriter and a loyal friend.

But the last words he had said to him had been in anger, with a raging expression on his face. Now, as much as he wanted to, Roger couldn’t take back what he had said, couldn’t fix it. There was no fixing it anymore - there may not be any chance ever, because Brian was practically dead and the last thing Roger did was argue with him, tell him that he was a nuisance, that he was a self-important prick. It was so wrong in so very many levels.

Brian had been there for him since they were very young. He decided to give him a chance as a drummer, which lead to Smile which then would lead to Queen. He was there with him to watch the moon landing, he was there with him and Roger went on and on about how he didn’t want to be a dentist, or a biologist about how he just wanted to be a rock star.

He’d been there in the tough beginnings, even when he would have had a more admired career in science. He stood by them and the band even when he got sick, and as much as he seemed to be a quieter tamer kind of guy, he’d always been down to party. Roger could always count on Brian and had done so more than once. They trusted each other, they cared for each other, they knew each other. Brian was a big part of his life because they had shared so much….

They had travelled together all around the world, created music together, they had talked about anything and everything, they’d practically grown together, influenced each other… So many moments, like that one time when Brian couldn’t sleep because he was hesitating about continuing with the band or the doctorate, and Roger stayed up all night listening to his woes. Or that other time near Christmas when Roger outdid himself a bit with the booze and Brian had been there to hold his hair back, make him some coffee, tuck him in bed.

It was rare to find a friend as good as that. Roger had, and he’d screamed at him over something that felt so unimportant now. So ridiculous, after everything that had happened.

Roger had a front row view of Brian’s collapse. He’d been just behind him, drumming away happily, when he saw Brian stop. That was odd on his own, but Roger didn’t think much about it, engrossed as he was with his own playing. But then Brian fell to the floor, boneless, lifeless, and Roger’s hands immediately stopped playing, the song disappearing from his mind, the drumsticks on the floor

He was the first to get to Brian, the first to see him unconscious. And the image of him, pale and unmoving in his arms was every night in his bad dreams. He hadn’t wanted to believe, hadn’t wanted to understand, to give it the importance it had.

Like it or not, Roger had studied biology. He knew just how fragile life could be, how easily it could end. And yet… It was just this fight, it was every fight they had. It was just the assuming that Brian was always going to be there… When was the last time he’d told him, hey good performance today, or that’s catchy? When was the last time he’d said thank you for listening? When the last time he’d asked Brian about his problems?

Maybe if he had then Brian would have mentioned that his head hurt, that he couldn’t breathe properly, maybe that would give them some clues as to what the hell was going wrong with him, maybe he would have gone to the doctor and got himself fixed before everything went so wrong. Roger had always been an observant guy, why hadn’t he seen anything? Why had he ignored Brian so much?

In the end, after avoiding it for so long, Roger came back to Brian’s bed, watched his unconscious friend and was assaulted by a myriad of emotions.

Guilt.

Guilt was eating him.

That was why he hadn’t been on the bed so much, that was why he was trying not to even think about him. Because he was being eaten by guilt, because he hadn’t seen anything, hadn’t said anything, hadn’t paid attention. Because he’d screamed at Brian when he was sick. Hell, maybe the fight they had had been one of the reasons for Brian’s sudden collapse. Maybe it was him who put his friend on that bed.

Helplessness.

Roger was always doing things. He was smoking, he was reading, he was watching the telly, coming up with a new tune, flirting, drinking, composing, singing…. Always active, always moving. When he had a problem, he fixed it. But there was nothing he could do about this, but feel helpless. Nothing at all. He could just sit beside that hospital table, watch one of his best friends in the world be eaten whole by machines and not do anything.

Feeling so helpless so unable to help when he was needed the most, it was so awful, it bothered him on so many levels… He could try and read, like John, but he was no doctor and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to find anything new and helpful, Freddie’s approach with the doctors seemed quite useless too…. What could he do? “Just speak to him, read him something.” But being in that room made Roger angry, and reading or speaking felt useless and he hated all of that, he hated not being able to fix this, end this.

Rage.

So fucking angry!! _You yelled at him,, Roger! You put him here!_ And what’s with all these doctors with their fancy degrees looking with a sad expression saying they’ve done all they can? IT’S NOT BLOODY ENOUGH!!!! What good are they, what good are all these machines if they can’t find out, if they can’t bring him back! And why on Earth would he fight with him just before a concert for god’s sakes!! _How daft are you, Roger Taylor, not to realise what a good fucking friend Brian’s always been??? How much he puts up with you?? Why didn’t I notice anything, why, why is everyone so slow, not doing anything, fuck!!!_

Sorrow

Roger took one of Brian’s hands and it hurts his own hand, somehow. It hurt because this shouldn’t be happening, because they don’t hold hands, why would they? But in here… Brian can’t say anything, can’t decide against anything because… There were a couple of tears running down Roger’s face, because he knew that this might be the end. That Brian might pass and they would never know what happened. That he would never hear his voice, see his eyes open, never speak to him.

The notion of never having a conversation with Brian sank his mood lower. Never watching him play, never sharing a cab, never… He will be supposed to continue his life without Brian and he guessed he could, but… It didn’t feel fair. Brian was young and bright and talented, why did they have to take him away so soon… Roger was going to miss him so much… He wondered if he would ever stop thinking about him.

“You can’t go yet, Bri. Not so soon, not like this.”

Roger’s voice was broken and low. He didn’t want to be saying this. He didn’t want any of this.

Pain.

 It was AM two on a Tuesday and Roger Taylor was loudly sobbing on a chair next to a bed in the coma ward.

It hurt. More than anything else, it hurt having lost Brian, it hurt not knowing, it hurt to have this gaping hole in his life. All the bad words he’d said to Brian hurt him, all the squashed hope with each treatment, all the days in which there were no news hurt. Almost everybody had lost hope for Brian and he… didn’t want to let go, because that would hurt most of all.

Roger can’t help crying, because those tears had been welling up on him for weeks, months even, and it’s just all… Exploded that night. He’s crying and there’s spit and tears everywhere, and he can’t find a tissue, and god if Brian woke up and saw him now he would think the world was ending.

But no…. Brian wasn’t waking up, and the sight of him, pale and bony in that bed with that big machine on his throat…HURT SO MUCH.

Roger stopped crying for enough to look at Brian and say what needed saying:

“You can’t leave, Brian, not like this, not now. You’re bigger than this, stronger, smarter. We need you for the band and make our fucking dreams come true and I know that you want to pick up the guitar again and play and rock the entire world. So, don’t…. don’t leave.”

Roger tried to clean his face with his hand, but it was a mess.

“I miss you so much, I didn’t think I would, but…. We all miss you. We’re all doing all we can to get you back. Whatever this is, Bri, you gotta fight it! You keep fighting, and… just… come back to us, get better.”

Nothing changed. A mean voice in the back of his head told Roger Brian couldn’t hear. It hurt.

“I’m sorry about what I said, I’m sorry I’m always fighting with you. I need you to know that… I care about you, that you are a great musician and person, and that you’ve been a great friend to me, even with how difficult I can be. I’m sorry we fought, Bri. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how much you mean to me. Just… wake up, please, Brian, wake up.”

But the pain continued.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Please do leave a comment if you did!


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